It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.
It starts on a Tuesday – these things always do. You're walking to the subway station near your apartment building when you see a leaky fire hydrant. There's a wrench in your rucksack (it belongs to Leo, but the plumbing in your flat is shit and you're on a uni student's budget – aka nothing – so he let you borrow it for the evening previous) and you've still got ten minutes to catch your train.
After fixing the hydrant, you have to sprint the rest of the way to the station, only to find the doors closing and the train leaving. You swear louder than publicly acceptable and a nearby mother glares at you while covering her child's ears. Fortunately, you're a pro at waving down taxis.
You're nearly at 34th and 7th when there's a loud rumbling noise and screams immediately after. For a moment you panic and flash back to 9/11 – you had been in a taxi that Tuesday as well. The driver is punching buttons on his radio and you roll down the window and lean out. A hysterical woman in the car adjacent is yelling about a train, but you can't decipher any of her other words. You tell the driver that you'll be right back before slamming the door and running towards Penn Station.
You don't make it very far.
When you wake up some hours later, you're in a white room, wearing a white dress, and there's a closed white door. It's unnerving.
The door opens and a woman enters. Everything about her is white, except for her ruby red lips.
"Ah, hello Percy. Good to see you up again."
You clear your throat and reach for the plastic cup of water on the bedside table. After chugging the entire thing, you respond.
"Where am I?"
"Honey, you're at Rockefeller University Hospital. Do you not remember what happened?"
You shake your head. She sits on the edge of the bed wrinkling the – white – sheets, and grasps your hand between her two.
"There was an attack – a terrorist attack, the police think. There's not much of a lead yet or anything, but someone snuck a bomb onto a train and it detonated somewhere around Penn Station. You were hit with debris in the middle of the road – you were probably looking to see what was going on since we found your bag in a taxi further down the road. You've been unconscious for nine hours."
"Wh – what train was it?" Despite the cup of water, your throat is still impossibly dry.
"It was headed to the stop at the World Trade Centre."
You nearly throw up.
The doctors have decided to keep you overnight, to monitor you for your concussion. You're not allowed to sleep, so at around eleven you sneak out of your room and wander the corridors of the hospital.
The nurse named Stacy told you that the receptionist called your mother and Grover, and one of them is supposed to come in the morning to check you out and keep an eye on you for a few days. You had hoped that one of them would visit, but neither did.
There's a light on in a room down the hallway. You step inside and find that it isn't a patient's room, like you had expected; it isn't even one of the child rec rooms. A large oak tree rests in the centre – directly under a glass ceiling that shows the stars. Grass, bushes, and flowers are scattered throughout the rest of the room and butterflies flutter about.
You find a wooden bench covered in vine, stationed in front of a small stream. You sit down and gaze around at the nature room – there's a proper name for it, but you're concussed and have no clue.
A purple butterfly perches herself on your knee and you smile at her for a moment before she flies away. Upset, you get up and chase after her. You trip quite a few times – later it will occur to you that running in your condition probably wasn't your best idea – and the final time you trip, you realise it wasn't over your own two feet, but a person.
It's a girl. Or a boy with really long hair. But probably a girl.
She stands up and brushes herself off before glaring down at you. You only blink and she huffs, pulling you to your feet by your biceps.
"You should really watch where you're going, dumbass."
She's irritated and you're concussed, so you stick out your hand and give her a smile.
"'M Percy."
She looks at you strangely before cautiously touching her palm to your own.
"Annabeth."
It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.
They said nothing about it being the other way around.
A/N: I actually really like this holy shit
Disclaimer: Percy Jackson belongs to the fabulous RSquared
Note: I got this idea from a movie trailer, which I proceeded to play on repeat while writing this thing. I could probably quote it from memory by now.